The Artist Who Is Not Also A

When We Treat Man As He Is, We Make Him Worse Than He Is; When We Treat Him As If He Already Were What He Potentially Could Be, We Make Him What He Should Be.

I Respect The Man Who Knows Distinctly What He Wants.

What Is Now The Foliage Moving? Air Is Still, And Hush'd The Breeze, Sultriness, This Fullness Loving, Through The Thicket, From The Trees. Now The Eye At Once Gleams Brightly, See! The Infant Band With Mirth Moves And Dances Nimbly, Lightly, As The Morning Gave It Birth, Flutt'ring Two And Two O'er Earth.

The Decline Of Literature Indicates The Decline Of A Nation.

Beauty Is Everywhere A Welcome Guest.